


I Knew the Hero of Ferelden

by aglarond



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Character of Color, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Loss, One Shot, Sanga POV, Short One Shot, Tumblr Prompt, Ultimate Sacrifice, Zevran's not doing great
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25042321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aglarond/pseuds/aglarond
Summary: Quick fill for ZevWarden Week prompt "Death." HoF makes the Ultimate Sacrifice and Zevran is, uh...not taking it well. Sanga POV because, hey, why not.
Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Female Warden
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4
Collections: ZevWarden Week 2020





	I Knew the Hero of Ferelden

Every night is much the same in The Pearl once the rebuilding starts. Their pocket of alleyway saw less of the fires, death and destruction that ravaged the rest of the city in the wake of the darkspawn horde’s siege. As a result, rebuilding is relatively quick, and good thing too: after all, mourning hearts have needs.

Needs which The Pearl is well-equipped to serve, day in and day out, and night after night. Sanga sees a marked increase in patronage over the weeks immediately following the Battle of Denerim. And once she gets over the shock of familiar faces no longer crossing her doorstep, she finds her rhythm again quite easily.

Except for one thing. Well, one person, really, who threatens to offset the delicate balance she’s found in the wake of disaster.

Every night he waltzes into her tavern, usually worse for wear with blood or booze already dotting his clothes, come ready to top last night’s performance. The patrons have begun to figure him for a regular. And by all accounts he is, fixed to the same stool at the left of the bar, immediately behind her post, reminding Sanga of how close they all came to oblivion.

“I fought with her, you know,” comes the lede this night, as it does every night. Sanga groaned; the elf was starting early this evening and she had only just started her shift.

“Whazzat?” came the bleary reply from the unsuspecting patron at his right.

“Mm—” A flagon hit the bartop with a wet plonk. “I _said_ , my malodourous friend, I _fought_ with the woman of which you speak.”

“Mal-oda-hoo?” replied one, clearly the wit of the group. But another responded more favorably. “ _You_ fought with the Hero of Ferelden, you say?”

“It was so.”

“No-ooo—you must take me for a fool, old man. _You_ fought with the Hero of Ferelden? You’re having me on, you are…”

“I assure you, I am not,” came the cool, confident reply.

“Oh, come off it, old man. Just ‘cause you’re elf-kind like her, I’m supposed to believe you knew the stinkin’ Hero of Ferelden? You’re off your head…”

But inevitably, either with the benefit of drink on his side or by his natural charms, he would convince them. This night, the skeptic’s idiot friend helped the assassin lay his trap.

“Ehh, hold on then.” He paused, no doubt thinking very hard about how to string a sentence together. “I…I want to hear what he’s got to say.”

Sanga sighed deeply, not bothering to hide her weariness as she rubbed at her temples. Just one night she would like to see that spring trap miss.

* * *

The assassin’s tales grew with the evening hours, aided by his heavy consumption of ale early in the evening, graduating to the lesser brandies and cordials as the night wore on. Sanga could almost recite his ludicrous tales herself. _Or join him as backup, the troubadour to his bard_ , she thought. Hmm. She cracked a smile at that.

She went about her business, minding the barroom and the customers, keeping tabs on the ones looking to cause trouble. Three hours in, the assassin was regaling his hostages with the yarn about the Hero of Ferelden and some lady spirit in the forest. And to be clear, this was _after_ the bit about the talking tree that only spoke in rhyme and made their merry band of misfits swear to fight some gaffer in the woods. Sanga snorted at the thought of it, just as ridiculous as it was the first time she’d heard it.

And as the night wore on, and new friends made at the bar found other friends for pay in the back rooms, the assassin’s audience thinned. Tall tales of clashes with bandits and rogue mages turned into soaring sagas of high dragons slain and—of all things—blood-gargling cultists sucking at Andraste’s scaly teats. Though, if pressed, Sanga had to admit, she quite liked that one.

Moving through the seating area grabbing orphaned glasses, Sanga watched his descent. In a flood of harried, happy people, the elf stood out. His soiled clothes and hair were on par with that of the normal clientele, but—whether it was the buttons askew on his shirt, the uneven part of his hair, or the crack in his lip—something was just slightly…off in a way that Sanga couldn’t quite place.

The hour changed, the crowd changed, and just as every night before, the elf’s stories began to lose their appeal, even to him. Sanga watched from the corner of the bar as he ordered another, the better part of his last drink spent down his open shirt. He rapped his knuckles against the bartop, impatient for the appeasement he wouldn’t find at the bottom of a glass.

And when the night turned into morning, Sanga would appear at his side to shoulder his weight and usher him silently to a spare room to sleep off the drink, as he fought her half-heartedly, not ready to face the dreams again so soon.

“I knew the Hero of Ferelden, you know,” came his slurried late-night appeal as they crossed the threshold.

Sanga tutted. “Yeah, so I’ve heard, dear,” she huffed, heaving him bodily onto the bed. With nightly practice, she thought this effort might lessen, but every night she was disappointed. She turned to leave.

And then, quite unexpectedly, Zevran uttered something new. “She was…she—” he started, calling Sanga’s attention back over her shoulder. He let out a single high-pitched sob, catching her by surprise. “S-She was cruel,” he continued, heaving as silent sobs wracked his body. He turned from her, burying his face in a ratty pillow. “Cruel to the end.”

Sanga said nothing, frozen to the spot of floor at the foot of the bed. And when it became clear Zevran had nothing more to add, she retreated the way she came. But as she put out the light that morning, like so many mornings before, Sanga began to wonder how many of those harried, happy people in her bar were hurting in their own way, content to let it eat them from the inside.

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, this was a bit rushed as the end of the day snuck up on me, so lemme know if you find wild typos or other issues. Hope you enjoy!


End file.
